Roar of a Dragon
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: Sherlock's got tummy rumbles, much to his embarrassment and John's amusement.


**Roar of a Dragon**

Sherlock impatiently shifted at the noise that assailed the otherwise silence of the kitchen, swallowing back his vocal outburst of annoyance.

Not ninety-seven seconds later, it happened again. Sherlock sighed testily and arched his back in a subtle stretch, the joints popping as another shot in the silence.

When the silence was broken for a third time, approximately fifty-six seconds after the stretch, Sherlock growled a _"Shut up!"_ under his breath.

"Who are you talking to?"

Sherlock sighed as John picked up on the statement, nostrils flaring. "Not you."

"Well, alright, tetchy."

Honestly, couldn't everything just _see_ he had this experiment that he wanted to finish? It was pressing, in his mind, at least, so why couldn't they just leave him a-

Sherlock clapped his hand to his stomach as it growled - for the fourth time - in annoying frequency.

The newspaper John was looking at crinkled. "Was that your _stomach_?"

Sherlock looked away from his microscope. John was looking at him, eyebrows raised and gaze tinged with humour.

"It appears so," Sherlock said, lowering his gaze back to his microscope again.

"Maybe eat once in a while?" John asked. The newspaper crinkled again. John must have went back to it.

Sherlock didn't respond. He didn't feel particularly hungry nor thirsty. His stomach didn't feel particularly upset and he wasn't in need of a trip to the loo, so it was beyond his mind - or beyond what thought he'd put to it - why it wouldn't shut up.

Sherlock knew of the emotion called 'embarrassment'. He just never bothered to care enough to get embarrassed over trivia. However, when his stomach growled again, quite loudly, and John laughed out loud, Sherlock was acutely aware that his ears had warmed to a hopefully unnoticeable presumed shade of pink.

"Sounds like a dragon, mate."

Sherlock sighed heavily through his nose. "It's annoying."

"Eat something."

"I'm not hungry," Sherlock retorted.

Nevertheless, he still got to his feet and peered through the shelves, settling on the tin of biscuits. He hated eating and he hated eating even more when he wasn't hungry.

"Well, your stomach thinks different," John said, licking his thumb to turn the page in the paper.

"My stomach is on about something," Sherlock muttered, nibbling on the edge of a biscuit.

He managed to force down approximately two and a half biscuits before he gave it up in favour of a cup of tea and scanning notes. He thought it helped, because his stomach settled in its grumbling. He shortly abandoned notes to flop himself into his chair in the sitting room, fingers steepling beneath his nose automatically.

"Are you trying to solve an actual case or just a fictional one?"

"They're _all_ actual ca-"

John didn't laugh this time, but the childish glee was written on his face.

Sherlock irritably kneaded his fingers into his stomach. "Stop smiling. Why is it funny?"

"It's very human for you."

"I am human."

"You try to act like you're not," John said.

Sherlock huffed. "Your stomach growls _all_ the time when we're on cases," he muttered, pulling his legs up to his chair and hugging them to his chest.

"That's because you starve me and typically I get to eat about a meal a day when we're working," John said. "Did you eat something?"

"I had biscuits."

John paused. "Does it hurt?"

Sherlock sighed. "No, _Doctor_ John. It's just..." He waved his hand in his stomach's general direction.

"Gas?"

Sherlock's sigh turned to a frown. "What?"

"I'm asking if it's gas."

"No."

John shook his head, smiling to himself again. "Don't look so affronted."

"I'm not affronted. Why would I be affronted? It's a logical explanation of the facts you have. Why wouldn't you ask?"

John laughed and looked at the paper again.

Sherlock gave John's hidden face a disgusted look and pressed his chin against his knees.

He studiously didn't comment when it growled again. Neither did John, although Sherlock knew that he heard. There were just _waves_ of silent laughter pouring off of him.

The heat spread from Sherlock's ears to warm his cheeks, staining them a heinous shade of red. He huffed again and pushed off from his chair, getting to his feet. He wasn't giving John another reason to laugh - because Sherlock Holmes did _not_ get embarrassed - so he trudged back to his bedroom, taking a mug of tea _and_ his violin with him.

* * *

**Pointless little drabble inspired by me telling my own stomach to shut up when it was growling earlier when I was busy. :p A Sherlock with a growling stomach just screams cute to me.**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Thank you!**


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